


with your name on my lips

by shawsameen



Series: wedding song [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Newlywed Sex, i know this is just banging but.... i'm soft, that's literally it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-10-01 20:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20398216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawsameen/pseuds/shawsameen
Summary: She is the Queen Regent of France, a formerinfantaof Spain. But right here, right now, with Aramis wrapped in her arms and lust evident in his eyes, Anne swears she has never felt more powerful in her life.





	with your name on my lips

**Author's Note:**

> for kesh and gina because they are hoes and i love them

She is the Queen Regent of France, a former _ infanta _ of Spain. But right here, right now, with Aramis wrapped in her arms and lust evident in his eyes, Anne swears she has never felt more powerful in her life.

“Say it again.” He echoes her earlier words but they come out in a breathy whisper, as if he’s afraid his voice will disappear if he speaks any louder. “Ana, say it again.”

She leans in close, though the movement doesn’t rightly disguise the shiver the use of her name elicits, not when he can feel it in her skin and in her lips as she kisses him once more. 

“My darling husband,” she repeats, the words dissolving like candy onto his tongue, and glances up at him from beneath her lashes, “_take me to bed_.”

Aramis’ hands fall down to her waist then, his grip tight but gentle, his thumbs firm points on her hips. He guides them backwards with the skill and knowledge of an ex-soldier who has this room mapped out perfectly in his head, but she toys with the idea that maybe he just hasn’t been able to stop thinking about her and this room for as long as she’s gone without having the touch of him upon her skin. 

One of his palms slide around her hip and along the curve of her behind, dragging lower for a brief, teasing second before suddenly lifting away. She barely registers him undoing the buttons of her chemise as he devours her; her lips are wet and hot and buzzing like a thousand bees, and the ache between her legs is growing so unbearable that she’d press against him were it not for the shift of her dress trapping her in place. 

But soon that’s gone, falling into a puddle around her feet after Aramis pushes it from her shoulders. She’s left in nothing but a thin slip and stockings, her skin cobbled with gooseflesh, and Aramis steps back and blinks at her. She can’t help but stare at his mouth—shiny and bitten-red, and she’s desperate for the reminder of it on her sex, for his tongue skilled beyond just words, but he looks like he’s staring at the face of God, and Anne, with a blush suddenly warming her face, realizes that that look is all because of her.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on,” he says, voice gravelly with desire. “And I can’t believe I get to call you mine.”

Anne smiles. He really is so charming, but she sees the earnesty on his face as clear as day. She wants to melt like the candles in the room, their light flickering across the surface of his eyes. 

“Would you believe me if I also said you were the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on?”

“Why, yes, I certainly would,” he jokes, and her eyebrows begin an unamused ascent that quickly ceases when he grins and she has to stifle a laugh into his shoulder. “We can be beautiful people together, you and I.”

“How very lucky of us.”

“I’d say so.” She can hear the shift in his voice, and when she glances up again he’s already looking back at her. “I’d say we’re very lucky indeed.”

She looks into his eyes, the relief evident there. She knows what he means. So many years of backstabbing and betrayal, of worrying, of death and danger, and of absence. All of that and here they are now, content, _ married_, and so very relieved to finally feel safe. Free. To be done, at least for now. No more Cardinal, no —no _ Rochefort_, no Grimaud, Feron, Louis. And what or whomever may come next shall be faced by the both of them, together.

Anne turns her head and places a kiss on his chest, left bare by his untied collar, soft and tender. He kisses the top of her own head in turn, his hand coming up to the back of her neck. And for a brief moment they simply stand in each other’s embrace and breathe.

Then Aramis tips her head back and finds her mouth with his own, and the ache inside her body makes itself known again. It’s so distracting that she doesn’t even realize they’ve moved until the backs of her legs suddenly bounce against her bed frame; she braces a hand against one of the posts, grip turning tight as Aramis’ fingers find their way to her ass again, trailing a path to her thighs.

He mouths along the tops of her breasts and when he looks up and finds her already staring down at him, she knows her eyes are blown impossibly wide. He slips a hand between her legs then, finds her wet and waiting, and the sigh she lets out is backed by a grunt of his own.

“_Aramis_,” she gasps, his touch searing on her skin. He ducks his head and takes one of her nipples into his mouth, straining as it is against the fabric of her slip, but doesn’t look up at her again until she slides a hand in his hair and _ tugs _in a way that makes his hips stutter. “Aramis, please…”

His hand pauses and he takes his lips away, dark eyes seeking hers. “Anything,” he pants, as if he’s the one being completely torn apart by his touch. “What is it?”

“Undress me, please, completely,” she says, and even though it’s hardly more than a whine, even with the presence of the breathy, desperate _ please _, she knows that he gets it—it’s a demand, not from his queen, but from his wife. 

He nods, leaning in to trail kisses down her neck. “Anything,” he repeats. “Anything you want.”

And he obeys her, tucks his fingers under the thin straps of her slip and brings them down her arms, achingly slowly, making her gasp and shiver as his knuckles drag across her skin, as his mouth finds her nipples again, bare and exposed. The slip falls down her legs, joining her chemise where it lies on the floor a few feet away. Anne doesn’t notice, as distracted she is by Aramis’ mouth, and suddenly she finds herself sitting on the edge of her bed with him kneeling before her.

For a small moment she wonders if, to the outside eye, he looks like a man kneeling for prayer. Aramis is a pious man, she knows, but the type of reverence he bestows upon her never ceases to make her breath catch in her chest. He touches her like she is holy, looks upon her like she is an angel from heaven, tastes her like she is sacramental wine and, right now, kneels at her feet like she is the only altar he has ever known. It makes her ache, how she can never find any doubt in how much he loves and wants her. It makes her ache because no man has ever desired her with such genuine sweetness like her Aramis.

With passion and want burning in his eyes, his hands on her skin are still gentle as they trail down her legs. He wraps one around her ankle and braces her foot on his thigh, and she watches with bated breath as his fingers curl into the top of her stockings and he slowly peels them off. He does the same to the other leg, then looks up and keeps his eyes locked on her as he leans forward and places a pair of twin kisses on the insides of her knees. But instead of shouldering the rest of his way between her thighs like she expects him to, he half-stands, hands placed on the bed on either side of Anne and finding her lips once again.

She cards her fingers through his hair. They make their own descent to the open flaps of his shirt, pushing them off his shoulders almost as an afterthought. He stands completely then, yanking the garment over his head and tossing it somewhere to the side, then he’s returned to her just as quickly. And with one hand at the back of her neck and the other curled around her arm, he lays them down.

This has been her bed for the past twenty years. She has had dreams in this bed, she has had nightmares; she’s even given birth in it, but never, not once, has she known a man in this bed. She’s _ thought _ of it, of course, thought of faceless men who could give her the orgasm Louis would not—or rather, could not give her after a fruitless attempt in their marital bed, and then, after that day in the prison, those faceless men shifted into Aramis. Hovering above her as he is now, lips somehow soft but also bruising against her own, desiring nothing but her. 

She’s thought of him a lot in this bed, but never once did she consider she’d ever actually have him in it.

And now here he is, hot and real, kissing her as if he were a man dying of thirst. His lips slide to the corner of her mouth, then down to her chin, then across her jaw. He traces her like a constellation, finds his way back down to her chest and places wet kisses on either of her nipples, then the undersides of her breasts, and then between them. She can’t help the giggle that escapes her when he begins the trek down her ribs—she really is ticklish, and his beard doesn’t help—but he makes sure not to dawdle, and then all of a sudden he’s moving below her navel.

She can’t help it; she tenses, and Aramis, being as attuned to her as he is, notices.

He looks up, concern evident on his face. “Anne?”

“I…” She begins, but the words die on her tongue, and she lets her gaze fall elsewhere for a moment. She doesn’t meet his eyes again until she feels his hand on her own, resting where it is over her stomach. She hadn’t even realized she’d moved it. He watches her patiently, still mixed in with that reverence, and it makes her feel guilty. “Just… wait.”

“Is everything alright? Do you want me to stop?” He does so anyway, and leans back so that he’s not hovering above her, giving her some space. 

“Yes, I mean, no, I—” She takes a deep breath and lifts her free hand to cup his cheek. “I don’t want you to stop, it’s just… well, it’s foolish.”

“You can tell me,” he says, all earnesty.

“I know. I know that.” He shares her smile, nuzzling a little into the palm of her hand, and she feels her chest blossom with warmth even as her insides flutter with silly nervousness. “The last time we did this, I was not yet a mother.”

He watches her for a brief moment, confused, but her husband is a sharp one, and the worry recedes from his eyes as he briefly glances down to the silvery scars along her stomach. _ The mark of motherhood_, the doctor had told her.

“Ana,” Aramis says, voice soft, “you know those don’t concern me.”

“I know. I told you it was foolish. It’s just been so long.”

He nods, wraps fingers around her wrist and turns his head in her hand so that he can kiss her palm. “I knew your body before it nurtured our son, true,” he says, and the truth in his words sends a thrill through her despite everything, to hear it on his tongue so freely. He leans forward so that they’re face-to-face, his lips barely above hers. “But the last time we did this, I was also a grieving man, and I did not yet know your love, not completely. We are not the same as we were then, my love.”

“I told you then that any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you, do you remember?”

“I remember. Of course I remember.”

“I was not wrong,” she tells him. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says, and kisses her then. “You shouldn’t be insecure about your body, but you aren’t foolish for it. You’re beautiful. Now, may I?”

She smiles against his lips and nods, and he pecks her one last time before moving back downwards. He kisses above her navel, below it, then swirls his tongue inside in a way that makes her let out an abrupt gasp. She feels him smirk against the curve of her belly, but it’s gone just as quickly as she feels him kiss and splay his fingers across her stretch marks.

She still can’t help the way her spine stiffens, if only a little, and he absorbs it with the touch of his lips, the trace of his nose, the flicker of his tongue. But he also doesn’t linger, and she knows it’s because he doesn’t want to make her too uncomfortable. She brushes the shell of his ear in a silent thank you, and he hums against her hip because he understands. Even without words, he gets her.

When he gently parts her legs, baring her open to him, and looks upon her with parted lips and dark eyes, he gets her. And when he teases her thumbs along her cunt, mouthing against the inside of her thighs until she moans impatiently, he _ gets her_.

The first touch of his tongue on her is like a shock of electricity, makes her hips twitch backwards and her breath leave her in a punched-out exhale. He hooks her legs over his shoulders, pushes himself closer, deeper, and it’s all Anne can do to tip her head back and fight for air. 

It’s both just as good and better than the last time. He hasn’t lost his skill, not that that had been a fear of hers, but time and longing have had their way with her these last few years, have left her aching and wanting when all she had was a memory of his head between her thighs like now, tongue sliding through her wetness, lips shaped around her clit. It’s exactly the same but also a million times more intense, and it’s with a particularly sharp flick of his tongue that she realizes she’s already about to come.

“Aramis,” she moans, chants his name to the ceiling, lets it get lost in the air and the candlelight and the warmth. He grunts against her, and she’s shaking in all the telling ways, and he dips the tip of one of his fingers inside of her. It’s like white in her vision, fire in her veins. 

She hardly makes a sound as she comes, she thinks, though it’s hard to say when her ears are ringing and her mind is swimming because he doesn’t stop, just keeps his mouth on her, tight but unmoving, and slowly slides his finger the rest of the way inside her cunt. He curls it forward, scrapes his teeth against her clit and along her folds and traces back up with the tip of his tongue; he groans again, and Anne belatedly realizes that she’s got a fist wrapped tight in his hair, holding him in place. 

Aramis catches her wrist when she slackens her grip, and she gets what he’s trying to convey. She curls her fingers tight once again and pulls, and she’s rewarded with a deep, wet groan so filthy that it’d probably make her blush were the circumstances different. As it is she clamps her thighs around his head and is pushed all the closer to her second orgasm as another finger joins the first, Aramis’ mouth hot and unrelenting against her.

She doesn’t last for much longer, falls right over the edge with both hands anchored in his wild hair, heels digging into his back. He moans with the pressure and the vibrations make her gasp for air, and then the stimulation is too much, so she lifts his head away. 

She vaguely registers him peppering soft, slippery kisses on her thighs and stomach again as she blinks up at the ceiling. He slowly makes his way back up her body, kissing around her sensitive nipples until he reaches her mouth, and she can’t rightly explain the type of heat that floods through her sated body as she tastes herself on his tongue. 

“You make,” he begins, “the most loveliest sounds when you come.”

Now that he’s leaning above her she _ does _ blush, and she suspects by the smile on his face that it had been purposeful. She pushes playfully but lazily against his jaw and he catches the ball of her thumb between his teeth, his smile now a full blown grin. 

“You have…” She gestures vaguely at the way his facial hair shines. “In your beard.”

“Ah,” he replies, huffing a short laugh. “Not a problem.” And then, without even a second thought, and to her slight horror, he leans down and wipes his face on her comforter.

“_Aramis_,” she chides, though she supposes the point is lost as it comes out amongst a giggle, one that deepens as he grins and slides his lips to the curve of her shoulder.

“What? The maids can wash it out in the morning, none the wiser. And now, on the very slim chance I happen to be elsewhere some other night, you won’t be able to stop thinking of me and what I’ve done to you here,” he mutters into the crook of her neck, and she can’t believe how innocent he sounds given his words, how they make her shiver against him.

He reaches her mouth again and she smiles, their lips barely brushing with the movement. “Who says I haven’t already thought of you here before?” His eyes flick to hers, the renewed desire evident in them. She traces the curve of his mouth with her fingers. “I am still just a woman, Aramis, with the occasional… need.”

“Everyone has needs, certainly. But no, you are not just any woman,” he breathes, leaning up to kiss her forehead, then her cheeks, and then her lips once again. “You’re my wife.”

She smiles, draping her arms over his shoulders and playing with the ribbon of her gift to him. The crucifix tickles her stomach, but she doesn’t care.

“That I am,” she says. “And you are my husband.”

“I’ll never get tired of hearing that. Or saying it, for that matter.” She laughs lightly as he chants the words again. “My wife, my wife, my _ wife_.”

The tail end of the word comes out a little strained at the sneaky appearance of her hand at the front of his trousers, slightly damp to the touch—evidence of his pleasure from pleasuring _ her _, and she bites her lip at the thought of him straining in his pants because he has her on his tongue. 

“Is this your way of telling me I should shut up and get on with it?” His voice is noticeably breathy, even though her touch is light, merely curious.

“Never,” she grins, though she means it all the same. She presses harder, feels the outline of his hardening cock with her fingers. “But I’m sure you wouldn’t protest.”

“‘Anything you want,’” he reminds her. “I meant it.”

“In that case, I would like you to make love to me.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“Like a husband makes love to his wife.”

“Hardly a challenge.” She can feel his smile against her jaw, and so she pokes him in the arm. “Ah, I meant it would be an honor, love.”

She laughs again, and for a brief second she’s surprised it could _ be _ this way. Aramis was right, even the first time they had sex he was a grieving man, not the same as he is now, and they did not know each other as well then. Of course, there were smiles, gasps, moans, _ pleasure_. And it was good, and they still have that now. But she never knew she could be so intimately wrapped up in a man and find time to laugh, to have idle, teasing conversation and still be at peace. 

Aramis had been a bit quiet the first time, not quite absent, and drawn away seems too strong a word, but she understood why all the same. She’d been truthful when she told him she’d never regret that night, and she will always treasure it. Not just because of what it bore them both, but because it had been special, a moment of reprieve they both needed. She’s just glad they can also have what they do right now. 

“What is it?” He asks, noticing her faraway look.

She shakes her head, clearing his worries. “I’m just happy.”

He smiles wide, bends down to kiss her, and shifts in a way that makes the crucifix drag across one of her nipples. She gasps. Her arms tighten around him for a brief second, and she uses that leverage to roll them over.

As he blinks up at her dazedly for a moment, Anne’s hands find the ties to his trousers, undoing them with graceful hands despite the thrill that runs through her. He doesn’t offer assistance, just simply watches her from under those impossibly thick eyelashes of his until she’s done, then obeys and lifts his hips when she taps him accordingly. 

And he is beautiful lying naked before her, he is always beautiful, and she hadn’t been lying just like she knows he hadn’t either—he is the most beautiful man she has ever seen, like sculpted marble, or like a painting lining one of the halls here in the Louvre. Where she had been flushed underneath his scrutiny, he basks in hers, chest rising and falling smoothly, eyes content and waiting. He lies hard against his thigh, but he’s patient as she studies him with the same reverence he devotes to her. When she reaches out to skim across his chest and nipples, his lips part in the tiniest of sighs and his eyelashes shiver, and she is utterly enraptured by this man and his beauty.

But when she moves her hips with a tad more intent, he stops her with a gentle touch to her wrist.

“Wait,” he says, sounding as if he’s suddenly realized something. “We can’t risk another pregnancy.”

She gazes over her shoulder at the vanity. “Constance gave me an early wedding present yesterday morning,” she tells him, nodding at the clear vial resting near her jewelry box. “It tastes rather unpleasant, but it’s meant to prevent conception.”

A concerned crease forms between his eyebrows. “It’s safe?”

“She and d’Artagnan have remained without a child for five years, and she’s fine,” she replies. And even though his worry for her sends a wave of warmth through her chest, she can’t help but tease him. “Shall I continue, or would you like to consult a doctor?”

He notices the smile on her face, and without warning flips the both of them again so that he’s on top of her once more. “Very funny. Maybe our son inherited his knack for humor from you instead.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but words get lost in her throat as he suddenly sucks at her collarbones, his tongue hot and distracting. Her body lights up as if she hasn’t just received two orgasms, ever greedy for more, always greedy for him. 

“Aramis, please,” she murmurs against the top of his head, afraid her words will get lost in his curls.

But he hears her. “Anything,” he says, and because he knows, because he gets her, he places his fingers between her legs. And once she’s ready, he lines up his cock and slides into her in one slow, aching motion.

It’s somehow both electrifying and grounding at once. She wants him to go slower and faster. She wants him to keep settling as she adjusts to the stretch of him and she also wants him to _ move _, but none of these clashing directives come out as a long breath leaves her instead, face tipped towards the ceiling.

Aramis gasps against her skin, forehead sweaty where he leans it against her chest, but he’s still so patient. She has no doubt that he’d probably wait for her forever, but she isn’t cruel, nor is she that strong. She cups her hands around his face, lifts his mouth to hers, and nods. 

He snaps like a taut string pulled too tight, sliding out and back in at a much faster pace, the feel of him making Anne’s skin buzz. One of her hands find their way to his hair again, and because he seems to like it so much she pulls experimentally. He groans rather loudly, hips losing their pace for a moment before he hooks his hands under the bend of her knees, and it’s her turn to cry out as the angle changes. 

“Anne,” he gasps against the column of her throat, “_Ana_,” and she clings to him, clenches around him where he sinks back into her cunt, holds on and swears not to let go. His hips swivel against her clit, her heel presses into the curve of his ass. The crucifix slides between their bodies, and Anne would think it’s sort of sacrilegious were it not for the fact that they consummated the beginning of their love in a convent. As of now she’s too gone too care, doesn’t even realize Aramis is moving them until she’s suddenly lying on her side, her head pillowed on his arm.

He’s still got a hand under her knee, holding her open to him, and she’s still got her own hand fisted in his hair, tilting his head back. Even with the angle he holds her gaze, hot and heavy but full of love, of desire, and she’s close already, mouths that truth wordlessly against his chest. And because she’s there, because she can, because she wants his pleasure as much as he wants hers, she swipes her tongue against one of his nipples and relishes in the way it makes him shudder.

Then suddenly he moves in a different way and she’s coming, clamping tight around him, and he somehow manages to wedge a hand between their sweat-slicked bodies to press roughened fingers to her clit. He holds her as she pants and trembles, stroking her hair. Even as she falls wholly apart she can tell he’s barely hanging on, body stiff with tension but holding out for her still, and she doesn’t want that. She wants him with her. Wants him to let go for once, completely.

She rolls her hips forward, slow and tight, and watches through hazy eyes as his mouth drops open in a silent plea for air. She does it again, and again, and he matches her rhythm until he can’t anymore, stuttering between her thighs and burying his face against her breasts as he loses himself, emptying inside of her with a sharp cry.

She eases on to her back as he rests against her, and she too strokes his hair, damp with sweat; pets across his shoulders. He breathes long and deep, almost sighing underneath her gentle caresses. She feels like she’s been set aflame and doused just as quickly, skin vibrating, but she’s also never felt so at peace, like the world has stopped moving.

He finally leans up and pulls out of her, purposefully slow but eliciting a full-body shiver from her anyway. For a brief second she misses his touch, but then, as if he’s reading her mind, he reaches for her, gently pulling her by her arm so that she rolls onto her side and curls up against him. 

She toys with the crucifix resting against his abdomen, fingers tracing the outline of it on his skin. He watches her with soft eyes partially hidden beneath lowered lashes and maps his own abstract pattern on the skin of her lower back. 

“You’ve given me so many gifts since this one,” he murmurs a few seconds later, voice rough with both exertion and exhaustion. “Our son. Your trust, your love. Today, your hand and your heart.”

“You have had my heart for a long while now,” she replies, nuzzling against him. She breathes him in, stares out the window across from her bed and looks upon the moon, high and bright in the sky. She thinks about the sun this morning and how it shined the same, and she thinks about tomorrow. “Aramis?”

“Hmm?”

“I know the maids will be by in the morning, but will you stay here tonight?”

“I will stay here every night,” he says. “My bed will scarcely know the warmth of my body, if you wish.”

“I do,” she whispers, eyes beginning to shut. “I do.”

“Then anything you want,” he says, and she vaguely registers him untucking the blanket from under them, sliding it up their bodies. They’ll have to rise extra early tomorrow to get dressed and ensure he's gone before the maids arrived, probably before the sun even. But it _ will _shine upon them, and it will shine bright, she knows. “Always.”

Anne nods, eyes completely closed. She falls asleep in her husband’s arms, and she wakes the same the very next day. 


End file.
